Why Don't We Join the Masquerade?
by Little Patch of Heaven
Summary: De-anon from Kink Meme. They weren't nations; they were just people with problems trying to be someone they weren't, disappearing into the role of a country to ignore their own lives. AU  OMG IT'S BEEN UPDATED!
1. Alfred

_De-anon from Kink Meme. The request was that the nations aren't nations at all; they're humans who are unhappy with themselves/their lives, and pretend to be nations in a sort of therapy club role-play thing...it was better phrased in the request._

_I'm possibly continuing this, but who knows?_

* * *

><p>His day goes like this:<p>

1) He awakes at six o'clock every weekday, dresses - typically a pair of faded jeans and a sweatshirt with long sleeves pulled over his wrists - and heads downstairs for a quick breakfast. If he's lucky, his father will still be drinking his coffee and will nod at him once before leaving. If he's not lucky, the kitchen will be empty and silent and the clinking of his spoon will sound as loud as gunshots.

2) He grabs his keys and drives to school; upon arriving, he sits and waits in his car until a minute before the first bell rings, compulsively switching radio stations every few seconds. When it is time, he heads straight to his class, unwilling to linger in the halls like fellow students do.

3) He keeps his head down and focuses on his work. His teachers know better than to call on him and the occasional substitute that doesn't learns the moment he opens his mouth.

If it's a good day, he can go the whole day without a word to anyone or from anyone and moves straight on to step four.

4) He goes back to his car the minute the final bell rings and heads home as soon as possible. Sometimes he meets his mother in the hallway and he nods to answer her question of how the day went. Sometimes his father is home early and waves a little from his spot in the family room. (Family room. How inappropriately named - they never spend time together any more.)

5) He heads straight up to his room and finishes his homework usually around five in the afternoon. He waits another hour before he comes downstairs and eats something by himself at the table - his parents have already eaten by that time - before heading back to his room, wasting time until he goes to bed.

If it's a bad day there is another step added between three and four.

3.5) He is forced to talk; his voice is soft and quiet and barely, barely there and st-st-stuttering.

(It is not his fault. He can't help the way his voice backtracks halfway between words and phrases.)

There's a pause after he speaks - or tries to, at least - before the noise explodes around him. He shuts his eyes tight and pretends he can't hear the hyena laughs and witchy cackles of his fellow classmates. (It's childish logic: if I can't see you, you can't see me.)

It's better than home, he reminds himself, trying hard not to listen. Better than home where it's like a museum - you can look, but don't you dare touch - , so cold and impersonal and so, so, very quiet that it's frightening just to breathe too loudly.

The laughing, at least, lets him know he's still there. They can see him, they can _hear_ him. They may be laughing at him, but, god, at least that means he hasn't disappeared yet. (It's so different than home, for dear Mom and Dad, bless their souls, seem to forget that just because he doesn't like to talk doesn't mean he's _deaf_.)

.

.

It isn't important how he hears about the meetings. Some classmate or acquaintance gave him a card with an address on one side and a short list of rules on the back. A chance to pretend he's someone else? He'd be lying if he said he isn't interested.

Typed in small font below the rules is a list of available countries, and he picks one, startling himself with the choice. He can hardly say one sentence properly, how does he expect to play a superpower? There are other countries listed there that would work for a stuttering mess of emotions like him, but he can't - for some strange reason - bring himself to change his mind.

So he sticks with his choice and reads up on his history - if he's doing this, he's doing it right - until he thinks he can recite over half of his textbook by memory.

There is a full body mirror in the corner of his room; he spends a half hour in front of it every day that week, trying to see something of the proud and confident nation in his reflection.

He doesn't.

.

.

On Saturday, he heads to the location on the back of the card, praying to God this isn't some cruel joke.

It takes him ten minutes to convince himself to leave his car, and upon reaching the conference room - room 108 it says on the card, but he doesn't need to look; he's had it memorized for days - it takes fifteen more to convince himself to actually open the door.

He hears voices coming from inside the room, loud yells and shouts and insults; there must be some sort of argument going on. The butterflies in his stomach seem to be on steroids, and he's so scared he thinks he might throw up. He can't speak. He can't yell. How is he expected to survive this?

His hand grabs the doorknob thirteen times and pulls back twelve. It's on the thirteenth time that he takes a deep, shuddering breath - god, even his breath stutters - and shoves the door wide open. All eyes are on him in an instant, and it takes all his courage to keep himself there. He wants to run; every instinct is screaming for it.

But something holds him there in the doorway, some small, stubborn desire for change that blocks his exit and forces him to flash a confident, cocky smile he knows he's never worn before and say, "No need to fear, the American hero is here!"

And he almost, _almost _freezes right there in the doorway, blue eyes wide and face set in shock because that was him, wasn't it? That loud, prideful voice came from him, didn't it? (Two full sentences, nine words, and he didn't stutter at all.) But he doesn't act as if he's bothered because America doesn't stutter, never has stuttered, and shouldn't be surprised that he didn't.

The other people - no, they're nations now, aren't they? - roll their eyes, but there is something very welcoming in their gaze; Alfred - no, no, he's America right now and will be until three o'clock - takes a seat by a blond-haired, blue-eyed man - the name plaque before him reads "France" - oozing confidence he wasn't aware he had.

Two hours later, America is gone and Alfred returns to a silent house and laughing classmates and st-st-stuttering words.

.

.

He meets England on the second Saturday. The man - not much older than him by the looks of it, but certainly out of high school - had been absent the meeting before for unexplained reasons, and immediately dislikes him. It probably has to do with the fact that America high fives him when he extends his hand for a handshake. (Or maybe the fake English accent he uses to spite him.)

Not even ten minutes into the meeting, they start an argument about tea - tea, of all things, as if it were the most important problem in the world, more important than car accidents and ashamed parents and st-st-stuttering - and America - no, Alfred? - feels his heart beat fast and he thinks, he thinks _oh_. Oh god.

He knows right at that very moment : he's in love. (Or something similar, at least, even if it isn't quite there yet.)

But for once it's perfectly okay, because America and England have the famous Special Relationship, don't they? (And why would nations care about gender, anyway?)

If he hadn't already been convinced to keep coming, he certainly is now.

.

.

Alfred wants to know England better, and during every meeting he sits there, sees those beautiful, green eyes flashing in the heat of an argument, and thinks today, today, today.

But then two hours is up - and how very unfair it is, for time to move so quickly when he finally wants it to last forever, God please? - and he feels America and all the strength and power and confidence leave him with a swoosh, and he's left empty and weak and so, so small because he's not, and never will be outside of these meetings, a superpower.

England - no, not England anymore; just some stranger Alfred doesn't know - is still there, speaking with the man who was France just moments ago. He's just a few feet away and so very close, but Alfred doesn't say a thing. He keeps his mouth shut tight and hurries out of the room before anyone can hear him talk.

.

.

It's strange how very easy playing America is. Alfred doesn't even think he had to create the character; it just came naturally. Which is incredibly odd, for America is every single thing that Alfred F. Jones is not: loud, confident, and cocky.

And as the weeks continue, America becomes more and more familiar, the role as easy to slip into as his grandfather's old bomber jacket. It's so very easy to go there every Saturday and insult England on his cooking and laugh at France's flamboyant clothes and annoy his 'brother' Canada. It's as if he's been doing it all his life.

Maybe America - all this bravado and laughter - is how he would have been, could have been. He thinks he can remember a time - was that just two years ago? - when he was just like this. But his sister was there then, wasn't she? Maybe that's it, he decides. The reason he can't be America all the time is because Amelia is gone and six feet under - all thanks to him and his old car and a patch of ice. (She would have liked these meetings, he thinks, but she wouldn't have needed them.)

It's sort of funny how little bits and pieces of himself slip through the tiny cracks of his disguise. (Is America scared of ghosts, or is Alfred?)

Maybe it should be frightening. What if he becomes something - someone - he's not?

_God, I hope so_, he thinks.

.

.

After about a month and a half's worth of Saturdays, it happens - the one thing he tried so very hard to hide.

It's like any other meeting. At three, the strength of America disappears and Alfred sits there quietly, staring at the table before him. All around him people are standing and leaving, occasionally talking to others, though it isn't often - no one wants for others to see what they really are.

Alfred is the last one left in the room and just as he is about to leave, his cell phone rings. A check on the caller ID tells him to prepare himself and he answers with a, "Y-yeah, M-m-mom?" She's trying to play the good parent for once and wants to know where he is and when he's coming home, but she's a few Saturdays too late. Has she really just now noticed he's gone three hours every Saturday?

He stutters out a reply and hangs up. As he turns towards the door, however, he sees Canada standing there watching him. His heart drops into his stomach and he wants to melt into the ground. How, how, _how _could he be so very careless?

Alfred prepares himself and waits for the laughing and taunting, but it doesn't come. Instead, he's met with a smile and the boy who is sometimes Canada says, "I'm Matthew Williams."

There is a pause while Alfred tries to sort through what has just happened, completely thrown off. Eventually, he realizes he's leaving Canada - no, wait, Matthew is it? - waiting for a reply so he says, "I'm Al-Alfred." And dammit, the stutter won't leave him be for two short words even. Alfred lowers his head and bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Nice to meet you. I'm hungry and there's a nice diner up the street. Do you want to come with me?" Alfred jerks his head up to look at him, staring in shock. Completely confused, he nods and follows the other teen out the door, still waiting for the laughing that has yet to come.

.

.

There is silence between them once they reach the diner. Matthew is waiting for Alfred to talk and Alfred doesn't want to.

"Ah, so…" Matthew begins awkwardly, desperate to break the silence. "Why America?"

Alfred doesn't want to speak; he doesn't want to show Matthew how much of a failure he is; he doesn't want Matthew to start to pretend he's not there like his parents do. Alfred doesn't dare look at Matthew, so he stares at his hands as they sit in his lap, tracing the scars and burns on his left wrist with his finger.

But Matthew still sits, waiting expectantly, and Alfred has been waiting so very long for someone to acknowledge him without laughing, hasn't he? So he takes a breath and tries his best to keep his voice steady as he answers. "America-ca is strong," he says, hating himself for the stutter. "And…c-c-confident…so I wanted t-to be like th-th-that. W-wanted to be br-brave."

America is a hero, too, and makes sure everyone knows it, and Alfred wants so badly to forget the wreckage and blood and flashing lights of two years ago and be a hero; but he won't tell Matthew that. At least not yet; he's not ready.

Alfred nervously looks up from his scarred wrists to see Matthew's expression. The other boy is still smiling reassuringly, no judging expression on his face. It gives Alfred the confidence to ask, "W-w-why Canad-da?"

Matthew sighs and this time it is he who lowers his head to avoid Alfred, as if he expects Alfred to judge him. "I wanted to be ignored for once, and everyone always seems to forget about Canada."

It's a concept Alfred can't hope to grasp. For someone who begs people to notice him - so that he can be assured he's still there, still alive and breathing even when his other half is missing - it simply makes no sense.

"W-why?" he asks. "Why do y-y-you want t-to be ig-ig-ignored?"

Matthew refuses to look up, and fumbles with the drawstrings of his red sweatshirt, silent and thinking. Alfred's heart beats faster - traitorous thoughts whispering _he didn't hear you, he didn't hear you, he doesn't know you're there_- and he wants to scream and claw at the scabs on his wrist and bleed just so Matthew looks up and notices him.

But before he can do anything, Matthew looks up with a sad smile and says, "I was tested at the age of six and told I had an IQ of 165. I'm only 18, but I'm a junior in college and officially classified as a genius." He chuckles but it is sadly lacking in humor. "I'm my parent's shining treasure, the envy of my siblings, and I should be happy about all the attention, I suppose, but I'm not. I guess it's just nice to fade away into the shadows every once in a while." He smiles wider. "Do you understand?"

Alfred shakes his head, says no, no he doesn't. Why would you ever enjoy being ignored?

Matthew raises an eyebrow at him, waiting for an explanation, and Alfred's not sure where the confidence comes from but he gives him one. "I don't ever wa-wa-want to be forgo-gotten. My pa-parents don't…th-they don't talk…talk to…th-they're ashamed, I kn-know. They do-don't talk to m-me because they d-don't want t-to hear m-me talk. S-so ashamed they pr-pretend I'm n-not there."

Matthew doesn't laugh, doesn't pity him, doesn't judge. He just nods like he understands and grabs hold of Alfred's scab-covered wrists, pulling them up onto the table and into plain sight. He pushes back the sleeves of the bomber jacket, leaving the marks and scars exposed.

"Is that why you do this?"

Alfred nods, rubbing a finger over one of the fading burns. He thinks maybe he should be ashamed of these marks, but he's not. They're the one thing he's not ashamed of; they're the one thing he can still control. "I w-want them t-to notice," he whispers.

Matthew gives his hands a squeeze and smiles. "I notice."

Alfred stares at him in shock before smiling as well - the same smile he used to have before the accident. "Thank you, Matthew."


	2. Arthur

When the meeting ends at its usual time there is an instant change in the room; nations are humans once again and the problems and ghosts that had disappeared for two hours begin to haunt once more.

The nations-turned-human begin to gather up their belongings, preparing themselves to head back home and throw themselves once more into whatever life they lead, but Arthur Kirkland can't seem to find the energy to stand. His head is pounding and he knows that he must look like an absolute mess - messy, dusty hair somehow, miraculously, messier and dustier than usual, grass-green eyes without their usual spark, skin paler, and the bags under his eyes dark.

And yet, despite the nibbling worry that the others will notice - or worse, the-man-that-is-sometimes-France might comment on it - he hardly even cares what they will think. He is simply that exhausted.

It is because of this exhaustion - and now that he stops to think about it, when was the last time he had a good night's sleep? - that the chair feels unexplainably comfortable and he contemplates simply spending the night right there in the meeting room.

Itn's not necessarily a horrible thought, and he goes as far as to actually rest his head in his arms and closes his eyes before the thought of a young blue-eyed boy forces him up out of his seat and through the door. He stands at the front of the building and watches as the others leave.

It isn't until he is sure that everyone has left that he heads towards a lone motorcycle parked off to the side. He pulls the black helmet over his messy hair and flips the visor down; he loops his messenger bag around his neck and makes sure the straps are secure before starting up the bike and pulling out of the parking lot.

Arthur speeds - something he knows England would never do, but Arthur Kirkland does all the time - because he has a shift at the bar starting soon and an ungrateful brat to drop off at home before he shows up at work. It takes twenty minutes to arrive at his destination and after parking his bike in the driveway and pulling off the helmet, he walks up to the front door and knocks.

It is opened by a middle aged woman with a friendly face and a happy smile; her name is Kathryn, a coworker at the café he works Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, and he swears sometimes that he owes her his life for watching Peter so often.

"Oh, hello, Arthur," she says, ever-present smile in place, and Arthur can't fight his own.

"Hullo, Kathryn," he says, (cockney accent thick and heavy as ever) and he nods his head like the gentleman he's just been playing.

Kathryn turns towards the house, calling, "Peter! Your brother's here!" and the two of them watch as a young boy with the same bird-nest of blond hair atop his head that Arthur has comes running to the front door.

He's scowling angrily at the older Kirkland, hiding behind Kathryn. "I was hoping you weren't coming back," Peter grumbles - and, well, at least he's honest, Arthur thinks - as he ducks his head to glare at the floor.

Arthur hides his wince as best as he can and scowls at the boy. "Come on," he says, and Peter thanks Kathryn and then dashes out to the bike, pulling his blue helmet onto his head. Arthur turns back to Kathryn and gives her a nod. "Thank you for wa'chin' him, mum," he says, and she laughs.

"No problem at all, dear."

.

.

Sometimes, Arthur sits back and wonders what the difference is between Arthur Kirkland and England; there's a line somewhere, he knows, but sometimes it's rather hard to locate.

For instance, when he really thinks about it, he realizes things like this:

England is a man who swears too much, drinks too much, and yells at everyone.

Arthur Kirkland is also a man who swears too much, drinks too much, and yells at everyone.

(( England is a lonely man who's been left and forgotten by his colonies; Arthur Kirkland is a lonely man living in the same apartment as a stranger. ))

.

.

It is late when Arthur gets home from work; it always is on bar nights. The small apartment is dark and with a glance in Peter's room, Arthur can see the form of a small boy laying beneath the sheets. There's a part of him that wants to wake him up and ask him about his day. There's a part of him that wants to kiss him goodnight and tuck him in. There's a part of him that wishes he had been there to eat dinner with him and read him a bedtime story.

But Arthur simply shuts the door and heads to his own room, pulling off his uniform and falling asleep still smelling of smoke and booze.

.

.

Arthur's Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays are spent working at _Tiffany's_, a small café in the heart of New York City. The pay is decent but not nearly enough and so Friday and Saturday nights are spent behind the counter of a bar.

_It's not perfect,_, he'll tell you, _but it works_. (Sort of. Not really. It pays for a small apartment with two bed rooms, a small room with a television, and what is supposed to be a kitchen; it pays for just enough food for the week, just enough clothes, and nothing fancy on the side.)

Arthur's used to no sleep and little food; it's something that started in his youth and only got worse, but he'll take what he has right now over the past; no matter what, he swears he's never going back to that house. (Or the man that lives in it.)

.

.

Sundays are the only days they spend together; it's the only day that Arthur doesn't have work and Peter doesn't have school. Even then, 'time spent together' usually just means 'time spent in the same building'. Peter seems determined to avoid Arthur as much as possible, and Arthur is typically catching up on sleep or nursing a hangover.

Monday mornings are awkward; the way that their schedules match up (the café for Arthur and school for Peter) leave them having breakfast together. The air is tense; two strangers at a table together trying to hold a conversation.

On Tuesdays Arthur is the one to open the café and he leaves the same time Peter wakes up. Sometimes he tells Peter to have a good day. Sometimes Peter tells him the same.

Wednesday morning, Arthur sleeps in; by the time he enters the kitchen the little, blue backpack is missing and Peter's sneakers are gone from the shoe-bin. Arthur eats breakfast while watching the news; he cleans the bowls in silence and then heads to work.

Thursdays run in the same fashion as Tuesdays; Fridays like Wednesdays.

On Saturdays, they eat together and then Arthur drops Peter off at Kathryn's house; at one o'clock, he shows up at the World Meeting, speaking the Queen's English and wearing a suit; for two hours he speaks of authors and books he's never read, uses words and phrases that don't suit him, and pretends that he's a proper, English gentleman.

.

.

It is Thursday and Arthur comes home around seven; the sound of a cartoon show drifts through the apartment and Arthur makes his way into the family room to see Peter sitting on the couch.

"'Ave you ea'en?" he asks and Peter merely grunts as a reply, holding up a half-eaten microwavable dinner for Arthur to see. Arthur nods and walks into the connecting kitchen; he reaches into the fridge for his own dinner and throws it into the microwave. As it's heating up he turns back towards the family room. "Homework?"

"Done," Peter mumbles.

Arthur stands there awkwardly for a moment before asking, "Did you 'ave any questions? I could 'elp."

Peter snorts and says, "You wouldn't know it; you didn't even go to college."

It's a low blow and he knows it, but it doesn't stop him from saying it. There's no more attempted conversation until Peter heads to bed and Arthur mumbles out a '_goodnight_' that is probably not even heard.

.

.

It's not that he ever really talks to anyone about it, but Arthur knows that if anyone asks '_why England?_' he will say this: he loves England. He loves the red buses, the calming, ever-constant rain, the warm tea on his throat, the history tucked away in every corner of every town, the old house he grew up in with the big, beautiful garden and the little library and the green shutters.

And he misses it terribly; he is an Englishman through and through, no matter where he lives now. (You can take the lad out of England, but not England out of the lad, he supposes.)

(There's more to it, perhaps.

Because England was an empire: proud and strong and oh so wonderfully high and mighty. England was a pirate and a privateer and a king and ruler of half the world. And even with his fall, England held his head high, stiff upper lip and all that, and remained a gentleman.

And England never wondered if he would be able to pay rent that month, so. So there's that too.)

He was six when the yelling became too much to bear and his mother went one way and his father the other. His mother wanted a new start, she said. Couldn't handle a kid on top of it all, she said. (She never said she didn't want him, but sometimes Arthur wonders; wonders because letters never came, there were no gifts waiting on his birthday, and he never heard a word from her again.)

America, his father seemed to think, was a good place to go. And so to America they went.

And Arthur dreamed of steady rain and bright red buses (and warm, soft, little mother touches) at night.

.

.

Arthur's education was inadequate at best. And halfway through junior year he decided the band was more important that school and simply got up and left. College never happened - there wasn't money for it even if he had wanted it - and the band became all he had.

They were going to be famous - a world wide sensation with groupies and autographs and world tours and photo ops and money and fame and everything that came with. Arthur played his guitar and wrote songs and dreamed and dreamed and dreamed. (Because that's what he's best at, after all.)

And then.

And then it just didn't happen.

His band mates graduated and went to college or perhaps to other jobs, and Arthur was stuck with a pile of song lyrics and an old guitar he had saved up for and bought himself and no future.

.

.

The very first thing Arthur does to become England is learn to speak the Queen's English. It's rather difficult because his Cockney accent is thick and heavy and real pain in the arse to fight with, but if he concentrates hard enough and really tries his 'h's and 't's appear and his 'i's and 'a's actually start to sound like 'i's and 'a's.

He stops himself from using phrases like 'cor blimey' and 'guv'na' and makes himself sound like an English royal rather than an English worker.

And then he starts to read. Shakespeare comes first (because even if he doesn't really like it, all well-learned Englishmen _must_ know Shakespeare) and then the classis like _Peter Pan_, and _Treasure Island_, and then, his personal favorite, _Sherlock Holmes_.

He reads during slow hours at _Tiffany's_and sometimes even at the bar. Peter comments once when he reads at home, says, "Why're you bothering?" and Arthur grumbles and says, "Because I want to."

And then, here's the funny one: Peter asks if he can read it to him sometime. Arthur promises to read him _Peter Pan_(because the main character is a young boy named Peter and Arthur thinks he'll like that one best.)

But bar nights run late and Peter is always asleep when Arthur comes home and Saturdays are always spent sleeping and worrying about rent and, well. It shouldn't have been a surprise that it never happened.

.

.

"Your birthday's coming up," Arthur says, attempting a smile that looks more like a grimace. "What do you want?"

Peter plays with his eggs, pushing them around the plate with his fork. "Nothing," he mutters.

"You must want something."

"You won't get it for me."

Arthur frowns and sets down his coffee. "At least tell me; you never know."

Peter looks up at him, a hopeful look entering his blue eyes. "Well, there's this kid in my class and he was talking about how fun his X-box is and -"

"No."

Peter deflates immediately. "See," he grumbles, stabbing his eggs angrily. "I knew you'd say 'no'." (The words '_you always do_' aren't spoken but they float about the room and bump against Arthur's ears regardless.)

Arthur sighs - the sort of weary, exhausted sigh that leaves his entire body sagging - and says, "It's not that I don't want to, we just don't 'ave the money for that roight now. Maybe next year -"

"You always say that!" Peter exclaims, pushing his plate away from him and crossing his arms defiantly over his chest. "You always say things will get better but they don't!"

There is silence. Peter glares angrily at Arthur and Arthur keeps his head down, eyes locked with the table and not the boy in front of him who speaks the truth. Finally he says, "I 'ave to go to work. Mrs. Johnson is picking you up for school, roight?" Peter nods, accusing look still in place. "Alroight," Arthur says, standing up and taking his dishes to the sink. "Be good."

He considers hugging the boy goodbye as he pulls on his coat, but decides not to.

It would be too strange.

* * *

><p><em>Oh lookie! I updated! :D<em>

_Alright...Arthur's story isn't quite done, but the next chapter will focus on France, I think. I've decided to start switching between characters every chapter or so. It will mostly just focus on America, Canada, France, England, and Sealand, though other character may get tossed in._

_Also, writing Cockney accents are hard. Should I keep trying to write his accent or should I stop? I'm afraid it might make it hard to understand sometimes, so I didn't go full out on trying to write it; I only dropped the 'h's and things like that._

_Anyway, please review!_


	3. Francis

_Updaaaaaaate! Yay, wahoo! And the storyline (is there one?) is finally progressing! :D Also, thank you to those who reviewed. Reviews always make my day._

* * *

><p>His father was French.<p>

Or was it his grandfather?

Or great-grandfather, maybe.

Something like that.

Somewhere in the past he knows someone with the name Bonnefoy came from France.

Francis (who was named after an ancestor who fought for France in the second world war, if you're interested) is about as French as French Fries. He's lived his whole life in bustling, busy New York, New York, and has never once set foot outside of the country.

Francis doesn't even know French; not fluently at least. He took three years of it in high school, but dropped it his senior year because of scheduling conflicts. (It was French or home-ec, and Francis loved baking too much to give it up.) He knows a few words here and there, enough to get by; little things like _bonjour_, _merci_, _mademoiselle_, and _mousier_.

So it comes as a bit of a surprise (to himself, at least) when he selects France off the list. Maybe it's because being French is exciting - it's foreign, romantic, enticing. Or maybe he's just getting in touch with his roots.

Or maybe, maybe it's this:

France is the country of love; but non-committed love, that is. France, he thinks, is the sort of person that could love a fiery redhead on Tuesday, and yet love a lively brunette on Thursday. France is suave, and knows how to get what he wants; it doesn't matter the girl, as long as there _is_ a girl.

And that's perfectly fine with Francis. He'll play France accordingly; he'll gladly love a new girl everyday. He'll follow through with flowers and chocolates and whispered sweet nothings.

(But here's the key: he won't ever _really_ love any of them. His heart, you see, was stolen away about a year ago - the thief a pretty little blond who didn't stay long enough to be presented with the ring hidden away in his sock drawer.

And it's awfully tragic, but it's just life, isn't it? True romance, Francis thinks, exists only in fairy tales.)

.

.

It's rather interesting that Francis even attends the meetings, for Francis is no Alfred or Matthew or Arthur. He's not crying out for attention just to be reassured he's still breathing; he's not cracking under the pressure of the world on his shoulders; he's not stuck in the past and barely scraping by.

He's actually rather successful, you see: executive director of one of New York's largest fashion companies, complete with a large house, three cars, and a little personal assistant that tags after him saying, '_would you like more tea, Mr. Bonnefoy?_'

It seems quite absurd, that anyone would think to present Mr. Francis Bonnefoy with a little card listing countries and rules, but that little assistant with the short, blond hair and the bright, green eyes somehow notices some little detail one day as she's bringing him his tea, and does what no one else would think to do.

(That Saturday, Francis nods at her and smiles in silent thanks as she curtsies and introduces herself as 'Liechtenstein'.)

He's never sure why she does it, and he's never sure why he goes. Curiosity, perhaps?

(But if you ask that pretty, little assistant she'll tell you something about empty smiles and an overwhelming sense of loneliness.)

.

.

It rains one Thursday afternoon around six as he's walking to the subway on his way home. Francis hates the rain. It's cold. It's wet. And it ruins clothes. (There's also the little matter of that one pretty, blonde-haired girl loving the rain, so maybe, just maybe, that might have something to do with it.)

It has only just started, but the nearest subway entrance is still a block away, and Francis doesn't fancy the idea of being out in the rain for any period of time so he begins looking around for some sort of shelter. A small little café just a little ways up the street catches his eye.

The sign above the door reads '_Tiffany's_' in white, swirling cursive; it's cute, in a friendly, quaint sort of way, and despite the fact that it looks utterly deserted, the sign on the door reads '_Open_' so he hurries towards it.

A little bell rings as he pushes open the door and enters the café. The inside of the café looks exactly how he had expected it to: friendly and quaint, with cheery, yellow walls and simple but nice decorations. Spread throughout the café are countless empty tables, empty booths along the walls. It has a nice homey feel to it, and it's warm and dry so he decides to stay.

Directly across from the entrance is a long counter with bar seating; there is also a cash register, where Francis can see the form of a young man, head down, face buried in a book, still oblivious to Francis's presence. As far as Francis can tell, the two are alone in the small café.

The sign by the door reads '_please seat yourself, we'll be with you in a moment_' so Francis does just that, selecting a booth with a window closest to the door. He doesn't bother alerting the café worker; in all honesty, he doesn't want to buy anything at all. He only wants shelter from the chilling rain.

Francis pulls his Blackberry from his jacket pocket once seated and comfortable and begins reading through his e-mails. After only a few moments, he hears a quiet cough and the creaking of a chair; there are footsteps next, short, clipped, and steadily approaching - the lone employee, Francis assumes.

The footsteps come to a stop next to his booth and Francis looks up. He is greeted with the familiar sight of grass-green eyes and messy, blond hair. _Oh_, he thinks. _Well_, he thinks, and then doesn't think anymore, because Prim and Proper, Keep Calm and Carry On, Absolutely Aggravating _England_ is standing by his booth in a small, little, utterly empty café, and well, what exactly is he supposed to think?

New York City is large, hustling and bustling with constant movement, every street corner and sidewalk covered with people and, well, here's the thing - Francis never thought he would ever actually bump into a 'nation' outside of the meetings.

But here he is (England, that is, or whoever he is during the week) and now Francis doesn't really know what to say. Is he supposed to say '_hello, how are you?, I'll see you Saturday_' as if they're old friends and this is normal? Or is he expected to smile, order, and tip the man like he would any other New York stranger?

He is absolutely stumped.

Francis has an eye for detail (it helps in the fashion industry, you see) and so he notices this: 'England's' green eyes are wide and somewhat scared, like a rabbit faced with a wolf; his face is paler than normal (a rather impressive feat, Francis thinks; the man could use more sun); the notebook and pen he is holding are shaking slightly - no, wait, the hands holding them are shaking slightly.

'England', he realizes, had no more expected to see him than Francis had. And the other man doesn't seem to be too pleased with this surprise meeting.

So Francis fights back his confusion and wonder and questions, smiles like he would with any other waiter and says, "Hello; what types of tea do you have here?" like he has never seen this man before in his life.

'England' blinks in surprise, staring at Francis in obvious bafflement, before his shoulders relax and his hands cease their shaking; his lips turn up at the corners in what might be a smile, and Francis can almost taste the relief coming off of him. He lists the teas for Francis like he is just another customer, eyes refusing to meet Francis's the entire time and Francis asks for a Green Tea like he is talking to just another waiter.

'England' nods quickly, and hurries back into the kitchen to prepare his drink.

Francis can't help his staring; his eyes follow 'England' as he exits, and remain on the kitchen door even after he disappears through it.

And then, suddenly, he realizes he can hardly breathe and he sits back and wonders why that is.

(It's like reality's come crashing down on his head. Those meetings - the ones where he forgets Francis Bonnefoy and that blonde-haired girl and loneliness and life; the ones where he pretends that all that exists is France and the other countries, all that has ever existed for him is France - were his getaway. His escape.

And now 'England' has pulled them into his daily, lonely life and made him finally wonder if two hours a week is really going to change a thing. How dare he.)

And then the man comes back and Francis wipes the shock from his features and the tenseness form his muscles, and smiles politely.

The man looks at him, raising one of those large eyebrows and opening his mouth as if to question him, before snapping it shut and handing Francis his tea with a small, almost-there-but-not-quite-smile, saying, "'Ere you go, sir. 'Ave a good daiy."

Francis considers then, for just a moment, asking the man his name. (And perhaps about a million other things while he's at it.)

But instead, he just takes his drink, says, "You too," and turns back to his Blackberry full of e-mails that he'd rather not read, watching out of the corner of his eyes as 'England' walks away.

When the rain clears up, he pays for his drink, and leaves without another word to the man behind the counter.

(And then, when he is home, curled up in a blanket and going over schedules and procedures for his next show, he wonders what might have happened - what might have changed - if he had only just introduced himself.)

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><p><em>As always, please review!<em>


	4. Matthew

_I'm so sorry for the long delay. I've had so much going on this year and fanfiction has been the least of my worries. I have a lot more in store for this fic though, and I really want to finish it. Hopefully when summer comes I'll have more time. Thank you to anyone's who has stuck with this._

* * *

><p>Matthew constantly analyzes; he doesn't mean to, really. It's like a bad habit. Instead of drugs or nicotine, he has his observations.<p>

So, it stands to reason that after a few meetings spent hidden away in the corner, he's learned a few things about his fellow 'countries'.

For instance:

He knows that 'China' is actually a rather successful business man; he's a father, too. (But Matthew gets the feeling he's not quite as successful at that role.) He knows this because he reads the paper quite regularly, and happens to spot an article after his third meeting that speaks of the powerful CEO, Yao Wang. Matthew isn't sure if the others know but he knows it's not his business; he respectively keeps quiet.

Matthew knows that 'Russia', 'Belarus', and 'Ukraine' actually are siblings, both because of their undeniable resemblance to one another (the shared features in their faces are easy to recognize thanks to an art course he took in high school that focused on drawing people; he really enjoyed the class, but was encouraged to drop it by his mother, who insisted it didn't have any academic value; it's okay with him, he assures himself, he didn't really have any artistic talent anyway) and because they exit and enter each meeting together.

He knows that 'England' doesn't get enough sleep at night because he always comes with shoulders tense and the skin under his bright, green eyes dark - and sometimes when he's not screaming or arguing with 'France' or 'America', his eyes drift close and he nearly falls asleep right there in the meeting.

He knows that 'Germany' has a prostetic left leg, even if it's always hidden by his pants; he walks with just the slightless limp, always leans to the right when he stands, and somtimes it makes a very quiet 'clang' that no one else ever seems to hear. (Matthew wishes he could ask, but he's knows it's not his place.)

And the one thing that Matthew knows that is more important than anything else is this: they are not going to get better simply by attending these meetings.

Two hours as America is not going to stop Alfred's stutter or make him more than a ghost in his own house.

And no matter how much he wants it to, two hours as Canada is not going to keep Matthew from cracking under all the pressure that's piling up on top of him.

(His parents should have named him 'Atlas'.) 

.

.

Matthew doesn't know what he wants to do with is life. He knows what he's **expected** to do: _scientist_, his father says, _doctor_, his mother urges, _genius_, says everyone else.

Matthew doesn't have a clue what **he** wants.

There's this little box he's been placed in, you see, this special plan that's been highlighted and outlined and thrust in his hands, and he's afraid that if he doesn't stay in that perfect, little box and follow that special, little plan, he'll lose his Atlas-strength and the world will fall down and crush him.

But here's the thing: scared or not, Matthew doesn't **want** to stay in that perfect, little box.

.

.

Owen Pallet wakes him up one Saturday, singing "_but Montreal won't break us down_" loudly in his ear, the plucking and playing of the violin in the background dragging him from his dreamless sleep. Matthew lifts his head, messy blond hair falling in his face, blinks sleep from his eyes, and looks down, realizing he's been using his biology textbook as a makeshift pillow - and not a particularly comfortable one. His muscles ache and scream, sore from a night spent in a seat by his desk rather than his bed.

With a yawn Matthew stretches high and long, then grabs his cell phone - still playing the sounds of "_This is a Dream of Win and Regime_" - from where it sits next to his book; he flips it open and is surprised to see the name Alfred Jones blinking on the screen.

_**Do u wanna meet up for lunch b4 the meeting?**_ the text reads.

Matthew merely stares at it; how much courage and silent debate did it take the other boy to send those few words, he wonders. It has been exactly a week since they sat in a café together and laid out their insecurities for the other to see. Matthew has had Alfred's number entered into his phone those seven days and Alfred has had his, but neither had made an effort to contact the other since they parted ways that day.

Matthew was a little too scared; he thinks Alfred probably was too.

Here's the truth of the matter - the reason for the smiles and the kindness and the café invite: Matthew is selfish.

For you see, there are very few people in the world that Matthew can call "friend" - if any at all. He sped through high school too quickly to catch sight of anyone around him and now, in college, he feels out of place among the other students - one of these things is not like the other, he thinks.

While his intellect matches - and surpasses - many of his fellow students, the age difference seems to throw up a thick, brick barrier between him and the others around him, so high he can't climb it, so well constructed he can't break it down. (It's no Berlin Wall separating east from west, but it might as well be - the difference is that Matthew's learned to live with it; he's not making any efforts to tear it down.)

Give him complex problems and equations any day, he'll solve them without batting an eye, but making friends? He's completely lost. Matthew doesn't understand how to have fun or how to make friends, so he doesn't, simple as that. He sticks to his books and his work, barricades himself in a prison of education and shuts out the world around him - it's easier to pretend it doesn't exist.

Matthew and his roommate have established a workable - if not comfortable - system: you make meals, I'll clean, we'll switch off on laundry; and you can go to your parties if you just leave me with my books. It works. (But sometimes Mathew wishes it didn't, if only so they could argue once in a while. If only so they could _talk_ once in a while.)

His sibling are worse - two older brothers and a younger sister who can only ever agree on one thing: they hate him. (Because he's always been so far ahead of them that they can't even see him, always been the favorite of their parents and well - jealousy is a poison.)

And then there's Gillian - sort of. A twenty year old biology major with a punk-rocket attitude and an apparent love of driving him insane. It's class that throws them together, because they're lab partners when they need to be and study partners every once in a blue moon - but only when Gillian decides to be, because Matthew never needs it.

Occasionally - when Gillian is extremely bored, he assumes - he'll receive a text asking "_**hey wanna hang out? party nite**_" and after he brings himself to look past the awful grammar he will text back a simple "_**No, thank you. Have fun.**_" - which is polite but terribly formal and unfamiliar, so perhaps he can't really count her as a friend either.

(There's also Lars, who's less of a friend and more of a supplier - but he won't elaborate on that.)

So perhaps asking Alfred to lunch was less because of the other boy and more for Matthew's own benefit: here was someone more insecure than him and probably just as lonely. But after one week - consisting of one hour long conversation in a café and nothing more - their friendship is shaky and delicate, balancing precariously on the edge of a cliff.

But Matthew wants a friend. (He desperately _needs_ a friend.)

So he allows himself a small smile and replies, "_**There's a Panera across the street from where we have meetings. I'll meet you there at noon.**_"

They end up eating more than they talk and when they do attempt conversation it is mostly Matthew - who's always been so quiet - who does most of the talking. But it becomes more comfortable as the minutes tick by and by the time they walk into the meeting room they're both smiling.

.

.

On Tuesday Matthew makes a horrifying discovery: they're out of coffee. It's his roommate's turn for groceries, and he doesn't really want to run all the way to the store just to buy coffee, so he heads towards the nearest Starbucks instead. He doesn't have class today, but he's been working on a paper and needs the caffeine to keep him running.

It's ten o'clock and the morning rush has obviously cleared out by now, leaving only one other student typing away on a laptop in the corner.

"Venti vanilla latte," Matthew orders as he steps up to the counter, hands and eyes already going to his wallet without a single glance in the employee's direction.

"Birdie?" the employee asks in reply; Matthew's head snaps up and he comes face to face with Gillian - she's standing behind the counter, a green apron over her black Rolling Stones tee-shirt. (Sometimes he thinks Gillian is pretty, in her own special way - her albinism makes her unique and she loves to play it up as much as possible, loves to stand out, emphasizing her red eyes with dark eyeliner and making her short, white hair as spikey and messy as can be. Her ears have been pierced six times, various silver hoops and studs decorating them, and as far as Matthew can tell, her wardrobe is limited to skinny jeans, band tees, and combat boots.)

Gillian's eyes light up and she smiles wide. "Thought it was you, Birdie!"

Birdie - that's her name for him, though he hasn't a clue why or where it came from; after insisting his name was "Matthew" for about the twenty-first time and being ignored yet again, he decided to just go with it. Gillian is one of the most stubborn people he has ever met, and if she had decided to call him "Birdie", she was going to call him "Birdie", simple as that.

"Surprised to see me?" she asks with a grin; Matthew really hopes she hasn't noticed his deer-in-the-headlights expression.

He recovers, shaking away the shock, and says simply, "I didn't know you worked," which is a whole deal more polite that "I assumed you were far too irresponsible and immature to actually obtain a job" which may or may not be what he's really thinking.

Gillian merely shrugs. "Needed money. Hey, what'd you want, again?"

"Venti vanilla latte," Matthew repeats, watching Gillian turn away to start making it.

"So what brings you out into the real world?" Gillian asks with her back to him. "Someone steal all your textbooks?"

Matthew frowns but doesn't argue against the joke. "I'm out of coffee."

Gillian's movements halt and she turns back around to face him, milk gallon in hand. "So you're just heading straight back to your room?"

Ignoring her disapproving scowl, he nods. "I'm working on paper," he explains. Her look softens - slightly.

"Due tomorrow?"

"…no."

The disapproving look returns full force, coupled with obvious exasperation. "Then there's no reason to work on the fucking thing today, yeah?" She hands him his drink with a wide grin that scares him a little. (Actually, Gillian herself scares him a little.) "I'm off in ten; wait for me." It's not a request; it's a demand.

And to be honest, the paper sitting up in his room doesn't tempt him all that much, so he does.

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><p><em>Yes, Prussia is female. Why? Felt like it. I actually don't like the name Gillian for femPrussia all that much because it just doesn't sound Prussian, but I wanted her to have the nickname Gil, so I kept it. It also means "youthful", so I guess it fits.<em>


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